


the man who knew enough

by fyborg23



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, M/M, inaccurate travelogy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyborg23/pseuds/fyborg23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m Canadian. That means my country doesn’t go around <i>pissing</i> off people,” Shea says, clutching the memo about bodyguards in one hand and hanging onto Laviolette’s office door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the man who knew enough

**Author's Note:**

> A couple of weeks ago, an anon asked:  
> Okay, the obvious way to go for a Weber/Josi bodyguard AU is Weber as the bodyguard, but my love of trope and role subversion means that I would adore bodyguard!Josi who's basically a coral snake (pretty but very very deadly). If this also included fake dating to explain Roman's presence in Weber's life I would be even more happy. Any further thoughts on this topic would be greatly appreciated. 
> 
> and my answer went on for 10k words. Whoops. 
> 
> Title is a call-back to the guys who knew too much and too little.
> 
> Originally posted on my tumblr, posting here for archiving purposes!

“I’m Canadian. That means my country doesn’t go around  _pissing off_  people,” Shea says, clutching the memo about bodyguards in one hand and hanging onto Laviolette’s office door. He’s leaning too far into suit county for his comfort, and yet Laviolette gestures at Shea to come in.

Laviolette raises one eyebrow, “Canadian… domestic policies aside, you need a bodyguard for where you’re going.”

“Switzerland. Global hot spot.”

Laviolette doesn’t crack a smile, and says, “You’re representing an  _American_  company. So yes, I would like for you not to. Suffer mishaps. You will be assigned a bodyguard. Else you’d have to pay the travel insurance premiums which are—” he flicks over to his computer monitor— “nine thousand dollars per month.”

“I’ll take the bodyguard.”

#

Shea’s badly jetlagged, his head pounding with bad red wine and lingering chamomile tea, and he feels grubby after being stuffed into a too-small business class seat for  _hours_. So maybe it’s understandable that he blows by a handwritten sign that says  _Weber_  and heads towards the luggage console.

Well, he  _was_ , but Shea’s arm is numb from the elbow down and someone’s getting too friendly with him and Shea whirls around, ready to take out this creeper with his laptop case—

The man smirks, Shea’d swear he does, before he makes Shea’s other arm  _numb_. Shea has no idea why no one’s even staring at them, and the man inches closer, “As. Nice as your, ehrm, stance is, your situational awareness stinks, Mr. Weber.”

Shea blinks. “You’re the bodyguard.”

There is no way. Shea was imagining like, Ivan Drago.

Not some— glorified model who Shea could bench press if his arms had any feeling in them like they _don’t_  right now. The man steps back, and says, “Roman Josi. I work for Pathfinders Inc.”

Shea mutters, “Yeah, great, can we get my stuff?”

Roman curls his arm around Shea’s, and says, “No, let’s move, we’ve wasted enough time already. Besides, if the rest of your clothes are like what you’re wearing now, it’s no great loss.”

“What’s wrong with them,” Shea bristles, at  _Roman_  hustling them out the door to a Range Rover, at Roman being so.  _So_.

Roman pinches Shea’s cheek, brushes his lips against his ear, and whispers, “You got them on sale in the big and tall section, yes? You Americans all dress so badly.”

“ _Canadian_ ,” Shea hisses as Roman settles him into the car. The driver shifts in his seat, and asks Roman something in German, but Roman just laughs.

Great, not only is his very expensive bodyguard a  _pretty boy_ , he’s a  _mean boy_  too.

Shea may sulk all the way to the chalet that is in no way a supervillain lair. The Range Rover creeps up the driveway, and Roman twists in his seat.

“House Rules, Mr. Weber,” Roman begins, “One, I am a  _trained_  professional, so I’d appreciate you keeping your aspersions on my skillsets to a minimum.”

“That’s number one?”

Roman smiles— not a nice smile, but it’s wide enough to see that even someone as flawless as he is has a small imperfection, a little gap in his lower teeth— “I don’t want to have to practice on you, sir. Number two, listen to me and you stay alive. Number three, apparently I have to pose as someone you’re…  _dating_. Adjust your behavior accordingly.”

“What kinda outfit is this.”

Roman raises an eyebrow, “Excellent question. Nevertheless, it will enable me to maintain a close coverage of you.”

“Do you have to use that word?”

“What word?”

“ _Coverage_ ,” Shea mutters, finger-quoting the word, “That’s  _my_  rule number one.”

Roman says, “Very good, sir,” and Shea would really like to do  _something_  to that face of his. Damn it.

#

The chalet has a round bed. Round chairs. Round tables. Shea’s noticing a theme here, and Roman frowns as he looks into the round closet.

“You won’t like this but—” Roman begins—

“No, please tell me you are not sleeping in the same room as I am,” Shea says, lying atop the round bed. He’s getting the sheets wrinkled but he doesn’t care. What in the hell are Sabertooth Ltd. up to if they think Shea is some sorta valuable asset? He’s just a mid-level computer guy who just looks at firewalls all day.

Roman turns, and looks down at Shea almost sympathetically, “The walls have, erhm, baffling? Can’t hear anything through them. So we’re stuck a little bit longer.”

Shea scrubs his face, and sighs, “Three meetings. Three meetings that I have to sit through and then I am getting the hell out of this circular hell.”

Roman doesn’t bother to conceal his smirk, and Shea toes off his shoes. “The only reason you should wake me up is if there’s machine gun fire, just— be  _quiet_.”

“Very good, sir,” Roman says, and Shea turns on his side. He can feel his teeth grinding, and wishes he made more time to go to the dentist. Maybe invest in some stress-reduction shit.

He falls asleep despite the tangle of  _emotions_  rushing around in his head. An arm jerks him awake, and Shea licks at his dry mouth, confused and still fucking tired—

“Machine gun fire,” Roman says.

“No shit,” Shea mumbles, his hands fumbling with his shoes just before Roman yanks him through the kitchen. Roman shoves Shea behind the granite island and says, “Just— stay there, ok.”

Roman grabs some cooking spray and— a  _butane_  torch, jesus— and Shea doesn’t want to see people get brûlée’ed to death. Shea peeks, and ok, maybe Roman is good at his job because he hasn’t seen any people burst in for  _him_.

There’s a scuffle, and Shea shrinks down, tries to make himself as small as he can. He can feel the dull ache of an old college injury flaring up, and his knees are going to bitch. If he makes it out alive. More scuffling noises, something that sounds like flesh getting hit, and Shea knows what people sound like when they get punched in the stomach.

Roman peeks over, and the very top of his hair is singed.

“Clear?” Shea asks.

“You drive stick?” Roman says, looking outside the window.

Shea bites his lip, “Been a while.”

Roman’s eyes flash back to him, and there’s a hard set to his mouth, “You know what a clutch is?”

Shea licks his lips, “Yeah,” and Roman narrows his eyes, “Good. Follow me. Close.”

He can feel his heart pounding through his chest, and his hands are clammy with sweat, but it’s easy to keep up with Roman. Roman moves easily, his head on a swivel. Whoever the people with the guns were, they’re not here—

But a plumbing van is.

“Plumbing issues?” Shea mutters. Shit, he fucking hates driving vans. One reasons out of many why the thing with Ryan never quite worked out.

“ _We’re_  the plumbing issues,” Roman says, yanking a rifle from the limp hands of an unconscious… _Goon_. Dressed as a plumber. Shea looks down, and then gets himself into the van, behind the driver’s wheel. He buckles up, and tries not to curse when he discovers that the gear shift is on the console between the driver and passenger seats. Who in the hell does that.

Roman peers out through the mirrors, and says, “Start him up, normal speed, we don’t want the authorities to worry.”

“The rifle?”

“This is Switzerland,” Roman grins, “Compulsory military practice.”

Shea raises his eyebrows, and pulls out, trying not to wince at how mushy the steering feels in his hands. They totter down past the driveway, and pull onto the autobahn,  _away_  from the scene of the crime. Very Bonnie and Clyde, although Shea’s feeling more Bonnie with the whole mini-van driving.

Roman scans the mirrors, fiddles with the radio, looks at the LED signs with a crease in between his eyes. “Canadian, you said?”

“Yes,” Shea says, and then swears at the Benz cutting them off, “You old fucker, get off the phone and pay attention to the road!” turns back to Roman, “If this is your way of asking if I speak French.”

“Yes.”

“No. Almost flunked out of French classes. I had to turn on the waterworks to get a passing grade.”

Roman raises his eyebrow,”Waterworks? What interesting pastimes you Canadians have.”

Shea is not going to crash the van on the Swiss autobahn, but it’s sure tempting for a beat. “You know what I meant,” he growls, and fiddles with the radio, “Are they looking for us?”

“Not… now. But we should lie low. Which will be difficult for you.”

“I’m not Switzerland’s next top model,” Shea mutters, changing lanes to get away from the Peugeot on his ass, “No one pays attention to me.”

“My, a nearly-two-meters tall man with an  _un_ sunny disposition, you are the master of disguise,” Roman retorts, “And I can change my hair. You can’t… um. Smile?”

Shea considers. The radio chatters in German, all  _und—isch—en—der_ , and the scenery whizzes by in green and gold streaks. Roman doesn’t shift in his seat.

“No.”

Roman nods, “Yeah, that’s a problem.” He looks at the signs, and then extends his palm, like it’s some sorta map. Maybe schoolkids here learn how to get from Zurich to… whatever else is here in this cuckooland.

“Bern is about an hour away, but. Too obvious.” Roman sighs. “Lucerne. I  _hate_  Lucerne.”

“Cheese?”

“Old buildings. And cheese. Take that exit.”

Shea chances a glance at Roman. He’s. Really hoping Roman knows what he’s doing. He has a feeling that whoever they’re dealing with is sick enough to do an re-enactment of that thing from  _Goldfinger_ only with cheese.

#

They dump the van just outside Lucerne, in a back corner of a parking lot between a bank and a gas station. Roman looks Shea over, and sighs, “At least you look like a tourist.”

“I am,” Shea says, “Or at least  _was_.”

Roman quirks an eyebrow. “I have one thousand francs on me— you?”

Shea digs into his back pocket and says, “Just twenty euros. They don’t… accept euros here, do they?”

Roman shrugs, “In case there’s a black market item for less than 20 euros I’ll make sure to ask you.”

“People want to kill us and you’re making jokes,” Shea says. Roman curls one corner of his mouth, and leans closer to Shea.

“It’s relieving  _my_  tension,” Roman says, and Shea is hyper-conscious of how good Roman smells, even with drying sweat along the collar of his dumb t-shirt.

Shea squares his shoulders, tries to use  _every_  inch he has on Roman, “Fine, Roman. You’re the bodyguard. Are we supposed to lie low and pray no one kills us in whatever hotel we pick?”

Roman rubs his chin, “We could take the train, stay on the move, but that’ll expose us to too many variables. Last-minute plane tickets are… very suspicious here.”

“Seriously? With what all of those bad guys stashing gold here?”

Roman snorts, “Just not very Swiss. Or tourist, come to think of it. Our best chance is to lie low, figure out how to erhm,  _obtain_  funds, and get you out of this as soon as possible.”

Shea chews on his lip, and follows Roman towards Lucerne. Being on foot doesn’t make them stand out, although Shea regrets he didn’t wear sneakers just in case some sorta death squad burst into that place and tried to kill them. Him. He’s not letting himself think too hard about it. Freaking out even more wouldn’t probably fit into Roman’s  _security plan_.

Roman glances at Shea out of the corner of his eye every now and then, and really, Shea has no problem keeping up. Sabretooth has no idea how to space out their business campus, so the suits just stay in their building and schlubs like Shea have to hike all over the place because no one even reads their e-mails.

Plus he got big into Pilates after. Ryan. So yeah, he’s in ok shape. He doesn’t bother telling all of this to Roman. Roman’s forehead is wrinkled, like he’s thinking hard, and hopefully whatever hotel fits his requirements is  _close_ , because Shea thinks he has at least three blisters.

The hotel Roman picks. Has ‘jail’ in the name.

Shea looks up at the sign, then back at Roman. “Does Jail mean what I think it means?”

“Yes. It  _used_  to be a jail, ok?”

Shea sighs, and follows Roman in, and Roman’s grinning and bullshitting the clerk in German. Shea shifts, and looks at the TV suspended from one corner. It’s covered in chicken wire. Shea whistles, and Roman smirks as he shows Shea their room.

Or cell. Since it’s one regular bed crammed into a room as narrow as it is long. Shea turns to Roman and says, “This is a bit of a downgrade.”

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t realize you had… specific tastes.” Roman tosses him the TV remote nestled atop one thin pillow, and says, “Stay inside. I have to take a shower, get some, ah, incriminating stuff off my hands.”

Shea has to bite his tongue to keep from snickering. Or even just saying anything. He sighs, and slowly peels off his shoes. He winces at the small blooms of blood dotting his socks, and he’s not even going to try to peel those things off him now. The TV has nothing on it except a Die Hard marathon.

Stuck in a jail-turned-hotel, watching some 1980s testosterone fuel with a scowly Bruce Willis—

Not what Shea was hoping to get out of this. He sighs, and watches John McClane growl over the radio at Professor Snape. He folds his hands behind his head, and thinks. Shea’s been with Sabretooth for maybe a little too long— he knows where the big old  _metaphorical_  bodies are buried, the whole Leopold trying to short-sell them, their really bad marketing plan that had  _country stars_  extol the protection tools of Sabretooth.

It sounds like a tax dodge, really. And Shea doesn’t even want to know how they used his algorithms. If. Shea sighs. If it’s  _that_  sketchy, maybe there’s someone annoyed enough to kill. But Shea’s not even anywhere near making company-wide decisions. He just shows up at the office, works and goofs off for about ten hours, then goes home and telecommute for about two more hours on weekends.

Shea winces. Ryan— was right when he called Shea boring. Shea  _likes_  being boring.

He opens his eyes at the bathroom door opening. Roman walks out of the cloud of steam, a thin towel wrapped around his sturdy waist, water dripping down his chest. Shea can see where the towel isn’t long  _enough_  on Roman, and he scrubs his hands against the rough sheets.

He is not— going to get a  _crush_  on Roman. Roman’s just doing his job. Shea should be doing  _his_. Roman combs his hair, smooth and effectively, and adds a side part. Add a suit and Roman’d look like a banker. He turns to Shea and winces when he sees Shea’s feet.

“You could’ve told me,” Roman says, pointing towards Shea’s blood-spotted socks.

Shea retorts, “Well, I was a little busy at the moment. Not dying and such.”

Roman sits down on the bed— it’s the only piece of furniture in the room besides the rickety stand the TV is suspended from— and peels off Shea’s socks, carefully. Roman whistles, “Hope you heal quick.”

“I’ll be fine,” Shea manages, trying not to focus on the professionally-smoothed touch of Roman’s hands on his feet.

Roman rubs at his heel, and grins, “You used to play hockey?”

Shea looks down, and yeah, there’s the Bauer Bump on his left foot. He shrugs, “I was a big kid. My parents got me even bigger skates.”

Roman smiles— it’s small, personal, and he rubs Shea’s heel before he lets go. “You should take a shower.”

Shea is not going to jerk off in the small shower stall. He  _can’t_ , not when he has to bend down to get the stream of tepid water to hit his hair. But he supposes it’s good that Roman’s observant. Yeah. Observant.

The towel might as well be a washcloth on Shea, but it covers the interesting bits enough that he can get out of the claustrophobic bathroom. Roman looks up from a battered phone book, and then  _pointedly_ looks back down again.

Shea licks his lips, and shoves his hair back from his face. Shea can feel the water matting his chest hair, and resists the urge to wipe it off. He sits on the far end of the bed, and oh, they’re blowing up that building in Die Hard now.

He can feel Roman watching him, and Shea doesn’t want to look in his direction. He does, anyway. Roman strokes the pages of the phone book, and says, “The dating thing we were supposed to do?”

Shea rests his head against the wall, “Yes?”

“Ehrm. I know someone who runs a. Let’s say, unlicensed bar in town. It’d be nice if you could cling and glower so I can talk to this guy.”

Shea laughs— it’s ridiculous, Roman can probably break people’s arms with  _one_  hand and now he needs Shea to distract people from whatever he’s planning. “Sure.”

Roman smirks, “Yes, the irony… I appreciate it.” His eyes slide over Shea’s bare chest, “And we do need to get you into better clothes.”

“Better?” Shea smirks, “You mean Eurotrash.”

Roman raises his eyebrow, “Very good, sir.”

#

Shea walks out of the changing room, feeling like he got the wrong end of a  _makeover_ , even as Roman licks his lips and says, “We’ll take it” to the clerk in a  _French_  accent. Shea doesn’t even dare adjust his cock in these leather pants, and his v-neck is like—

If Shea turns too fast everyone is going to see his nipples through the gaping v of his sheer shirt. He props his white aviators up on his head, and says, “This is intimidating?”

Roman walks around him, brushes some imaginary lint off his shirt, and says, “It’s all you, sir. Um. If you could—” he gestures towards his own chest— “mess up your own chest hair a little.”

Shea blinks, but does it, and Roman squints his eyes before he grins. “Very good, sir, that’s perfect,” and Shea has to bite down on his cheeks to keep from making any noise. This is already borderline unprofessional. Roman tosses on a leather jacket that’s  _green_. A stupid, dumb mossy green that somehow makes his eyes look even prettier.

Roman pays for their clothes, and says, “You get in character so fast.”

Shea crams on his sunglasses and rolls his eyes behind them, “After you,  _babe_.”

It could be the too-yellow light of the street light, or it could be a sheen of pink on Roman’s face. They trudge towards the hole-in-the-wall bar, picking their way across ‘historical’ cobblestones and come to a squat little building crammed in between two much more nicer buildings. It has no windows, and has a sign that’s probably older than  _Canada_  swinging from it on a rusted iron arm. Shea follows Roman closely, frowning at the dim light.

Truthfully, the bar looks like it’d be a great place to lose an eye. It’s…  _teeming_. Shea wrinkles his nose at the heavy waft of smoke and bad perfume and sweet booze, and dodges a very amorous couple fumbling towards the restroom.

Shea shifts behind Roman, and Roman leans over the bar counter at the sweet-seeming short old lady. She narrows her eyes at them, and sniffs something in French.

Shea remembers enough 10th grade French to know  _something something after what you did something_. Not very encouraging, but it doesn’t seem to deter Roman from leaning closer and muttering  _I’m sorry, madame, something something, but my boyfriend and I need something francs._

The lady squints at Roman, and cackles, like she has a broomstick as her other car, but that seems to reassure Roman. Roman straightens up and watches her round the corner to the backroom. Shea leans against the counter, and Roman slides his leg in between Shea’s.

Shea bites his lip, and Roman slides his hand under the loose collar of Shea’s shirt and nuzzles his neck, murmuring, “Feel free to be rude. Very rude. Be upset he’s talking with me. Hover and grope.”

Shea twitches his hips, and palming the small of Roman’s back, “Like this?”

Roman smiles, “Good,  _babe_.” Shea presses his shivers back against the counter, and palms himself across his tight pants, feeling both awkward and  _bold_ — it’s not something he would choose to do in public, no matter how much he may have wanted to in the past, but his pants keep getting  _tighter_.

Roman may swallow a little before he shoots Shea a measured dirty smile. He doesn’t get dirty smiles on a regular basis—

Shea doesn’t feel like himself, but then again he’s not supposed to be  _himself_  right now, and there’s the upside of having Roman look at his hands before he forcibly composes himself.

A man comes out of the rickety door by the bar, a sheen of sweat on his forehead that clashes with the vague expression on his face. He looks at Shea carefully before he talks to Roman in French. Roman’s on alert, strung tight like a bow ready to fire. This guy’s on  _edge_ , scrubbing his hands over his pleather shirt like it’d make a difference.

Shea knows his cues, he pulls himself up, and stands right behind Roman. The man’s eyes keep shifting over to Shea, and he tells Roman  _something something head size of a garbage can, who is he?_

Shea growls— too theatrical, he mentally adds— but it makes the man step back and shut up. Roman leers something back in French, mean and nasty even to Shea’s rusty ears. The man looks like he wants to counter Roman with a nastier thrust.

Another cue. Shea says in what he knows is shit French,  _You are not helpful._

The man startles, and Shea just squares his shoulders, rests his hand on Roman’s shoulder. Shows off the size of his knuckles, maybe an old scar across one finger that he really got from breaking a glass but looks really  _gruesome_. It’s enough to make the man freeze like a rabbit, and run away like one too.

Roman reaches up and strokes the back of Shea’s neck, his fingers scratching through the hair, and Shea leans into Roman, just to make it easier on Roman’s arm. Roman’s nails are too short for Shea to really feel— but he can still feel them across his neck anyway. Shea curls his hands around Roman’s hips, and Roman murmurs,  _good, good_.

Shea shouldn’t feel so happy to have Roman tell him he didn’t stumble into the scenery. But he does, especially when they walk out of there with a fat wad of 500-Euro bills in a take-out bag and a burner phone.

Roman cradles the burner phone, and says, “Not bad,” and Shea is on the run, with a virtual stranger he had to get hot and heavy with— he laughs.

“What a fucking absurd plan,” Shea manages, and Roman shrugs.

“It worked. Any phone call you need to make?”

Shea considers. He doesn’t know any numbers except for his dad’s landline— and yeah. No. “I don’t suppose we can lawyer out way out of this.”

Roman raises his eyebrows. “Depends.”

“You ever get the feeling you’re about to be shoved out of an airlock?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m not that important— what I do is very boring but basically I make sure firewalls don’t have any leaks in them. I may have. Written a memo about some banks being vulnerable. That’s what those dumb meetings were about.”

Roman whistles through his teeth, mutters to himself in German. Shea has no idea how Swiss banks feel about zero-day exploits but it shouldn’t rise to the level of  _murder_.

Well. Too many of the suits are very… classic corporate shark.

Shea can keep thinking about  _who_. He’s got the rest of the 5 Ws covered.

#

The money’s enough to get them a car that’s barely autobahn worthy but has a vignette sticker affixed to the windshield, no questions asked. Shea circles around the car, makes a show of kicking the tires while Roman pays off someone who insists on being called  _Wolfgang_.

The car is not designed for Roman. Let alone Shea, who barely fits into the passenger seat after pushing it all the way back on the rails. They make several circles around stone buildings until they figure out how to get into a gas station that sticks out like a sore thumb. There’s no one there, not at 4 in the morning, and Shea crawls out to get anything with caffeine.

There’s not much. He stares at the Nescafe display for ten minutes, before he cracks and gets two cans of horrific energy drinks, advertising  _dragonfruit_  and  _guarana_. He winces when he sips at his, and then tosses the other can to Roman.

Roman looks down, and says, “The things I have to do for my job.”

Shea shrugs, and looks at the rising sun peeking through the clouds. It’s going to get busy with the morning commuters, and maybe it’s the sugar rush, but Shea feels like there’s something  _else_  waiting for them. He would shift in his seat, but it’s too small for him to even do that.

Roman reads the battered manual with an increasingly concerned frown on his face as he sips at his tepid drink. Shea may not know German, but he knows metric units, and it’s probably more than fair to assume they shouldn’t do  _aggressive_  maneuvers with this car.

Roman jams the manual into the glove compartment with a sigh and Shea says, “Are we going to die?”

He watches Roman drum his long fingers on the steering wheel, and Roman looks like he’s weighing _telling the principal comforting things_  versus  _telling him the fucking truth_. It’s too long for Shea’s comfort before Roman comes up with an answer.

“They will be very, erhm, determined. They tried to kill you and failed. They don’t want to screw up this time. It’s difficult to tell what their tactics will be given we don’t know who is pursuing you. They tried something subtle— and didn’t count on me being there. Now?” Roman shrugs. “It will be. Difficult.”

Shea blames his thin shirt on the shiver he gets right then. He leans back into his seat, and sighs, “At least you’re honest.”

Roman glances at him, and then cranes his head to look at the rear window to back the car out. Shea tilts his head back and grimaces at the dredges of the drink before he jams it into the cup holder. There’s nothing to really talk about, and Shea turns on the radio, just before he remembers that the odds of Nickleback playing in  _English_  is really fucking slim. Swiss people apparently really like Mozart.

_Rondo Alla Turca_  plays in the small car interior as they head west, sun at their back and the day turning overcast. Shea slides on his sunglasses. He’s not really used to spending this much time out of an office, and maybe bright computer screens have ruined his eyes for natural light.

Roman shifts into a higher gear when they pass a sign with a  _130_  crossed over it, and Shea could swear he grins when he puts his foot down. The car doesn’t whip, or shake— and Roman keeps flicking his eyes over the mirrors. Shea presses his shoulder down against the window, and frowns when he sees headlights along the horizon in the side rearview mirror.

The headlights are getting bigger.

He tilts his head, “Roman, bogey at our six.”

“What?” Roman frowns, but his eyes flick up at the rearview mirror. He curses in French, something about Mary and piss, and mutters, “What is a bogey.”

“You’ve never seen  _Top Gun_? Bad guy.”

“I have seen  _Top Gun_ ,” Roman says, “But you know, the volleyball scene.”

If the circumstances were different Shea’d be laughing, but not when he can tell it’s a  _black_  sedan, probably the European version of the stereotypical conspiracy-theory black town cars full of bad intentions.

“Gaining on us,” Shea says, and if they’re going 130 kmph, they must be going 160 kmph given how those headlights are getting bigger that fast.

Roman nods, and eases off the gas, shifts down, “Make them look like there’s nothing to see here. The speedo doesn’t like anything higher than one-fifty. Recline your seat.”

Shea doesn’t have to be told twice. They’re looking for two men, not one, and he hates  _unbuckling_ , but this fucking  _car_! He fumbles with the plastic lever, and goes down with a  _fwoop_ , and Roman takes one hand off the steering wheel, “Sunglasses.”

Shea hands them over, and Roman slides them on, “Wow, you really stretched them out,” and sets his teeth in an unpleasant smile as he looks down on his left rearview mirror. Shea swallows, and has to jam his feet against the footwell when Roman mashes on the brakes.

He glances over at Roman, and yeah, he’s holding on to the plastic surround on the passenger door. Roman’s practically standing up on them, and the car— an Audi A-something— just whizzes by before it realizes it overshot its target—

Roman shouts “Shit”, and jerks the wheel to the left when the Audi somehow manages to turn on a  _dime_ before heading straight for them—

Shea jerks at what sounds like firecrackers.

“Ok, yeah they’re shooting at us,” Roman says. No fucking shit, and Shea wishes he could do something other than cling to this stupid seat that doesn’t even fit him.

“Put your fucking feet down right the fuck down,” Shea says, and flinches when a bullet gets into a rear side window, “Jesus fucking shit on a cracker!”

Roman snarls, “Shit,” glances down at the instrument panel, “This car is getting very angry.”

Shea realizes his feet are  _hot_ , and jerks his shoes away from the back of the footwell at the smell of burning rubber, “No mechanic but I think it’s sprung a coolant leak,” and Roman just clutches at the wheel, muttering underneath his breath.

“You have to stop,” Shea says, “Else we’ll set ourselves on fucking fire.”

Roman looks down at Shea for a beat, looks up at the Audi still on their ass, “I don’t like this.”

Shea licks his lips, “Not a big fan of it either. Not a big fan of fire, though.”

Roman sighs, and slows down to an easy stop on the shoulder of the road. The Audi slides up to them, and two guys come out. They practically scream  _Star-Spangled Banner_  just from their polos and khakis, but the sneer of the more surly-looking one confirms it.

“Well, well, you’re giving us a lot of trouble, Mr. Weber. And your call boy too.”

Shea bristles, “You fuckers shot at us,” and the short one smirks, “Whatever it takes.”

Great, a bunch of yahoos from  _Minnesota_. Shea has no ear for accents but he knows what a Minnesota accent sounds like.

Roman licks his lips, sounding a lot softer than Shea’s ever heard Roman be, “Please don’t kill me.”

They laugh at  _that_. The surly one punches Roman full in the face.

Shea closes his eyes,  _Roman’s just acting, just telling them bullshit so we can escape._  He wants to burst out of the seat and fight back—

But they have guns, he doesn’t.

Tweedle-Minni and Tweedle-Dum sling Shea and Roman into handcuffs and cram them into the backseat of the car after spending ten minutes bickering about which one should get the trunk.

Roman’s silently fuming, his face flushed around the cut on his cheek. This is not bondage Shea is even remotely into, and he would really like to find out who wants to kill him right  _now_.

#

Shea’s head pounds, angry waves against the base of his skull. Maybe he shouldn’t have slipped and called Tweedle-Minni  _a smega-monger_  since he got punched in the nose for it when they dragged him out of the car.

Roman’s resting his head on Shea’s shoulder, a clot of blood on his lip that moves with every deep breath he makes. Shea can’t look away from the disheveled waves of Roman’s hair, or from the red spot that he can feel through his sheer shirt.

Shea tries to sniff, and regrets it when old blood pulls inside his nose. Gross. Not that either of them smell nice, tied up with yellow plastic rope and stinking of dried sweat, faded deodorant and caffeine crashes.

He probably smells like  _fear_. But Tweedle-Minni and Tweedle-Dum were smart enough to punch both of them in the gut before roping them up, which means that all of those “how to get out of ropes” tips he read on… the internet are useless. Hence Shea is really fucking  _unoptimistic_  about their chances right now. If he was a statistician he’d be muttering  _one in a hundred million_  to himself. Roman shifts, and the rope pulls across them, making both Shea and Roman hitch their breath.

Shea bites down on his tongue, and ignores the sweat slicking both of their backs. Roman’s hot and _sharply_  angry— Shea can feel it, and Shea hopes it means that underneath that pretty face of his Roman is calculating like a goddamn calculator.

The Tweedles come back, and there’s a suit— he’s got  _boss_  metaphorically stamped on his forehead and a V-shaped scar actually on his right cheek. Shea rolls his eyes. How James-Bond-Movie can this get? Scarface narrows his dark eyes at Shea, looking like he wants to throw him to the Tweedles again, before he sighs and turns to Roman.

“You’re too good at your job,” Scarface says, in  _English_.

Shea cranes his neck, looking at Roman. Roman’s eyes are hard, and his jaw’s working a little, and Roman says, “Thanks, Boucher. So you decide to kill your employee  _and_  your client. Interesting business model.”

Boucher smiles, and the scar crinkles along with his cheek, as he steps closer to them, “Really. You could have just let the first squad take care of this…” he glances at Shea, “Encino man.”

Roman makes himself relax against Shea’s back, and Shea can hear the smirk in his voice as he says, “So I’m fired?”

Boucher purses his lips, clearly trying not to fall for whatever verbal trap Roman has for him. He looks back at Shea, the Tweddles, and laughs, “Mr. Poile will be pleased.”

Boucher walks away, and says to the door before he opens it, “Get rid of them.”

Roman surges up to his legs, and Shea follows, pushes up on his feet almost involuntarily—

Tweedle-Minni yells  _shit_  and Shea headbutts him— fuck shit that was dumb— tries to get him in the balls but Roman’s yanking him towards the door and pushing both of them against Tweedle-dum—

Shea smacks into Tweedle-dum’s nose with his knee and he can feel a wet  _crunch_. Roman’s laughing, and it makes Shea want to do more to these fucking dicks.

But Roman’s barrelling both of them up a narrow stairway. Shea doesn’t have time to think about where to put his feet, just to dig his nails into his palms and try to run  _backwards_  up the steep steps—

They burst out into bright sunlight, and Boucher’s murmuring into his phone when Roman-with-Shea catches up to him. Roman stops on his heels, and Shea’s lips curl into a grin as he smacks hard into Boucher.

Boucher falls into the mud, and there’s a tinny voice, screeching—

Roman pants, “Stick your hands into Boucher’s pockets, he’s gotta have a knife—”

Boucher wheezes something in French, and Shea presses his knuckles against Boucher’s soft gut just on principle before he slides his hand around the— jesus fuck it’s a Swiss knife.

Roman jerks his head, and Shea knows the Tweedles are coming up the stairs with  _guns_ , fumbles around the Swiss knife before he pops the blade and saws upwards against the ropes straining his chest—

Boucher screams, “No shooting—” and Shea says, “Yeah, I’m a shit human shield,” presses his tiny advantage against Boucher by sawing faster, praying the blade doesn’t break—

The rope comes loose, and Roman slides his hand down to Boucher’s ankle, gets out a tiny little pistol. Shea licks his lips. A peashooter, but—

That’s enough to make the Tweedles stop in their tracks.

Roman grins, “I don’t suppose you still use expanding bullets, Boucher? I don’t suppose any of you guys want an up-close look of what that means for human tissues?”

Boucher sputters, “Those are illegal, Josi!”

“Killing people is illegal,” drawls Shea.

Boucher shoots him an angry glare, but it’s really, incredibly ruined by the mud splatters covering his face and suit. Roman steps closer, pointing the pistol at them, and says, “Drop them. Now.”

Shea hates how hot Roman looks. Boucher’s given up struggling, and Shea scoops up Boucher’s phone as he gets up, knife pointing at him. Boucher smirks, and Shea says, “Oh, you probably don’t even password protect this, do you?”

“Fingerprint.”

Shea licks his lip, “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” and it’s a few taps of the keypad combined with the sensor that makes the home screen unlock. Shea shows it to Boucher, and says, “Fingerprints aren’t unique to every individual, you know. Surprise!”

Boucher snarls, “Fuck you.”

“Quit showing off, get a damn car key,” Roman shouts, and Shea plucks a key fob from Boucher’s jacket pocket.

“Got one,” Shea says, and runs after Roman as Roman gets out into a parking lot— is this a park? What the hell kind of park has—  _bomb shelters_?

Roman looks back, and tells Shea, “Unlock the car from here. I don’t like surprises.”

Shea presses down on the key fob, and at least the car that chirps cheerfully doesn’t go up into smoke. Roman’s still tense, and yanks the key from Shea as they get closer. Roman flicks his eyes at Shea as he slides into the driver’s seat and. The car doesn’t explode again, and Shea gets in carefully. Roman peels the car out of this place— where is it?— towards somewhere  _not_  here.

Roman looks intensely at him, and Shea squirms in his seat. He clutches Boucher’s phone to his chest as he sighs, “I’m going to disable the GPS on this as much as I can. This guy probably doesn’t even have any antivirus apps on his phone.”

Roman licks his lips, and Shea licks his own. Roman smashes his mouth against Shea, clumsy and harsh, says, “Thank fuck you’re so fucking smart.”

Shea doesn’t blush. Not as a rule, but Roman just radiates  _we almost died and we didn’t_  and it’s— he knows how that goes, the adrenaline pumping and dicks getting stiff—

Shea clenches his teeth and looks down at the screen. Not at Roman, who’s dirty, bloodied, and clutching the steering wheel like it’s a trophy and Shea badly wants to fuck him, clutch at him and make him speak in German—

No.

They have Poile to catch and to squeal on.

#

Roman finds a rest stop so they can clean up. It’s quiet, this time of evening, with the sun creeping down, and they’re the only travellers here. The bathrooms are… nice, like Shea could actually get halfway there to looking he didn’t get the wrong end of a gun pointed at him today.

Shea tries not to gape at the lack of metal stalls with  _call this number for a good time_  and  _was here spring ‘97_. There’s toilet paper. Stiff, but it’s  _there_  as opposed to one lone cardboard tube clinging for life on the roller. The water’s even hot when Shea scrubs his face with  _actual_  soap, getting flakes of blood out of his growing beard.

Roman dabs at his mouth, and winces. Fresh blood wells up on his lip, and Roman sucks on it as he looks in the mirror and slicks back his hair with water. They could fork over money for whatever the clerks have, but human interaction is a bit beyond them at this point.

Shea makes himself look away when Roman jerks off his shirt and lifts his arm in front of the mirror. There’s a bruise, crawling up towards Roman’s ribs. Roman’s tan creeps down past his belt, and Shea scrubs at his hands harder, making himself breathe. Roman steps closer, and plucks at the ruins of Shea’s shirt, rubbing the sheer fabric in between his fingers with a sad sigh.

“60 francs this cost,” Roman says, pushing the edges of one large rip together on Shea, and Shea grins.

“A little foolish,” he tries for casual, but Roman keeps touching him. While shirtless. Roman slides his hand over Shea’s arm, and Shea looks at their reflection in the mirror. Roman doesn’t quite look good with stubble, patchy around his mouth, but still. Looks are relative. Especially for Roman Josi.

Shea looks like he pissed off someone way bigger than he is, and it’s only the fact he’s hard-headed that means any swelling around his nose isn’t  _too_  noticeable. His nose’s definitely unhappy if he tries to touch it, but probably not broken.

Roman puts on a smile that even Shea can see through, “Not too bad, really.”

Shea turns towards him, looks just slightly down at his eyes, and says, “Bullshit.”

“Yeah,” Roman admits, and Shea has to stop from touching him and maybe kissing the unbloodied side of Roman’s mouth. He’d be soft, careful—

They look at each other.

Shea’s teeth ache from the tension. Roman breaks away. He rolls on his shirt, and says, “There’s an internet cafe down the road from here.”

“Good,” Shea grins. It’d be a POS computer, but better than trying to scope out the phone with a touch screen keyboard. Getting to the cafe— and Roman pushes some cheese scones Shea’s way— and a cable for ‘recharging’ the phone is trivial. Boucher has a lot of files— almost all of them in the so-called Trash— on his phone.

Shea keeps digging, and Roman keeps murmuring translations into his ear. Besides a lot of… personal entertainment sites’ cookies, Boucher apparently wrote an email requesting  _non-sequential USD bills_. Shea’s no accountant, but he can figure what  _that_  means. Boucher even has drafted emails for the generic email ids for the Executive Suite at Sabertooth. All of them talking about dates, times, ‘issues’. The fact that they were  _generic_  could imply that Boucher was just a cutout, or he was trying to keep names out of this. Shea frowns, and clicks on more files.

Roman raises his eyebrow when Shea keeps looking and finds just how many times Boucher creeped on Shea’s LinkedIn page. “Did you stick a bowl on your head and cut it?” Roman asks, pointing at his profile picture. Shea grunts. It’s old, unflattering, and really he hates social networking, but the only reason he has that damn page is to make it easier on some HR bastard to figure out that, yes, Shea Weber is a real person with a real degree from a real school. Even if it is an Canadian school.

And that’s it. Circumstantial evidence, Shea thinks, and he doesn’t know what the proof of evidence is over here. But not that promising. Not unless he gives everything he’s found and told… who?

Roman clicks his tongue. “This is the home of the IOC. I’d not hold my breath.”

Shea leans back in the plastic chair, Roman’s knee pressed against his, and steeples his fingers. Sure, it makes him look evil, but it’s so helpful. He saved his memo to a blind drop online. Copied and pasted the url to the blind drop to his email, and he could just forward all of this plus the memo to Pekka. Pekka’s probably not involved with this scheme. Probably.

He stretches his legs, and scritches at his beard before he turns to Roman, “It’d be too much to hope you know a well-respected journalist?”

Roman pinches his fingers together, “Yeah. I could tell Yannick about this.”

“Yannick?”

“My brother,” and Shea blinks, feeling foolish. Of course Roman has a brother. Has a life outside of this  _job_. Roman lifts his shoulder, “This is weirdly up his alley.”

Shea smirks, “Why do I get the feeling Yannick is almost the opposite of you?”

Roman laughs, “Hey, he got all of the new toys, I had to overcompensate.”

“I hate this idea. Wikileaks,” Shea says, stroking the curves of the mouse with his fingers, “I’d probably never work another day in IT security. ‘Course, they did try to kill me so—”

“Evens out. Besides,” Roman squeezes Shea’s shoulder, “You— You’re resourceful. Good under pressure…” he trails off, looking outside the window with a blush on his cheeks. Shea blushes  _for_  him, ok? Not because it touched him or whatever.

Uploading everything— plus the  _highly sensitive_ ,  _internal_  memo— to the site takes longer than Shea’s happier with, and it’s not the caffeine that makes his heart thunder in his chest when he clicks the _submit_  button.

Roman presses his hand on Shea’s back, “No sign of trouble, but we should go.”

Shea nods, and leaves the phone on the plastic table as they walk out of the cafe. The car’s tracked, and with Roman and Shea looking the way they do now, they could just be a couple of guys who had too much to drink, walking home to do some mildly regrettable things.

Roman curls his arm around Shea’s, and Shea looks down, gets Roman’s smirk in return. “People tend to look away from sappy couples.”

Shea licks his lips, “Yeah? I’m— Look, I know it’s your job and everything, and I don’t want to be that jerk who harrasses you—”

It’s dark again, and Roman presses closer, “You’re not.”

The kiss is soft— too soft— but Roman’s mouth is so tender it makes Shea’s lips ache, and Roman strokes Shea’s cheek when Shea backs off. Roman’s bleeding again, just a little, and Shea wants to punch out the Tweedle fuckers  _again_. He hates and loves how Roman looks, raw and exposed in the lengthening twilight.

Roman curls his hands around Shea’s wrists, sturdy and  _good_ , and Shea likes  _this_ , likes being held and it makes him wonder what  _else_  Roman can do with those hands. Roman slides his fingertips over Shea’s pulse, and Shea swallows before he manages, “Does Switzerland have laws against public sex?”

“I have no idea,” Roman says, and it shouldn’t be a relief to get to the bed-and-breakfast that just screams  _tourist trap_. They don’t paw at each other when they check in as John Smith and Hans Müller. They don’t look at each other when Roman follows Shea up the narrow stairs, or when their hands touch as they reach for the door knob.

Roman presses the door closed with the bottom of his shoe, and tilts his chin up at Shea. Shea pushes up his shirt, and skims the edges of the bruise, and Roman forces out a breath.

“Too much?” Shea asks, scraping his teeth just against the edge of Roman’s jaw, and Roman rakes his hands through Shea’s hair, “Fuck no, it makes me want to throw you down.”

Roman licks his lip at Shea’s surprised reaction, and presses him against the door, “It’d be a bit of a challenge, you know, big strong guy like you, but—” he cups Shea’s cock through his pants, “I think I can figure it out.”

Shea curves his hands around Roman’s ass, hefts it in his hands, “Yeah?”

Roman lowers his eyelids, and pushes off his shoes before he undoes his pants, pulls Shea close to him by the waistband of his pants just before he unzips the fly. They’re so close, and it’s killing Shea that they can’t even do more than press their mouths against skin as carefully as they can.

Roman strokes him through his underwear, and whispers, “You’re waiting for  _me_ ,” and any smart retort Shea has falls off his tongue when Roman squeezes his hand around his cock, adds, “Because you want to see what else I do.”

Shea rocks into his hand, and Roman presses his nails against Shea’s hip, the pain a perfect underscore to Roman’s heavy hand on his cock. Shea moans, despite himself, and Roman breathes, “You like that?”

“You’re a fucking tease,” Shea says, clutching at Roman’s ass just before he sucks on that perfect collarbone—

Roman squirms, and Shea rubs his chin against Roman’s shoulder, mutters, “Yeah, I see how it is—”

Roman grins, something that makes Shea feel hot and molten inside—

Shea hasn’t wanted to be fucked up the ass in— too long, but jesus he’d trust Roman with that, that Roman’d have the care and the  _pride_  to do it. Shea leans closer, slides his hand along Roman’s chin, and rests his lips just on the bow of Roman’s lips before he slides over to Roman’s cheekbone.

The small bed  _creaks_  and  _squeaks_  when they lie on it, and Shea lifts his hips enough for Roman to pull the rest of his pants off. Roman straddles him, presses his hands against Shea’s hands’, and god, Shea wants to rub off against Roman, get come on Roman—

“We’ll have to be,” Roman leans in, “very,” a kiss again, “still,” and Shea sighs, sagging against the spring mattress. Roman rocks, and Shea smothers his gasps before he can make them, Roman’s cock hot against his own.

Shea presses his cock up, sliding against Roman’s abs, and Roman squeezes his hands before he moves his hips, slow and filthy. Roman’s so pink, and Shea licks at the arch of Roman’s neck, salt heavy on his tongue—

Roman moans, and moves faster, and Shea twitches, trying not to make the bed squeak  _even more_ , hot at the thought of anyone else knowing about this. Shea squeezes Roman’s hands and lifts his hips, just like that, and god Roman’s rubbing himself off against his hip—

Shea strokes Roman’s hair, whispers, “I thought you’d be talkative in bed, maybe talk in German,” spreading his legs more,  _appreciating_  Roman’s weight against him.

Roman stills just a little, just before he says, “The walls are— ngh— thin, god,” and reaches down to jerk both of them off, fast and too hard and a little rough but Shea’s coming even before he realizes it, a sharp surge of  _yes_ ,  _more_ , clutching at Roman’s hair and wishing badly he can properly kiss him—

Shea watches Roman come, and strokes him through the trailing end of his orgasm. Roman sighs as he collapses against his side, and Shea can’t keep from grinning. Roman turns on his side, and rests his head on his hand, looking at Shea. Shea turns his head, and says, “Not bad.”

“Chemistry.”

“Yeah.”

Roman licks his lips carefully, “A lot of it.”

Shea turns towards Roman, and inches closer, “I want more.”

Roman’s eyes drift down to Shea’s mouth and says, “Me too.”

#

Shea’s last day in Zurich is two weeks past what the date on the original ticket in his jacket pocket says. Turns out the Swiss authorities frown on assassins masquerading as bodyguards. He’s been interviewed by the cops, by both the Canadian and  _American_  consulates, and now Roman’s bosses— present? former?— want to talk to him.

If it was up to Shea, he’d have hung up on them.

But it’s not. He  _owes_  Roman. He likes Roman— and Shea doesn’t generally like people. He likes Roman— not just because he saved his life. That helps, sure, but because in those cars, that creaky bed-and-breakfast, they both just fit, in a way that Shea knows is  _rare_. Shea wants to see Roman again, see just how very well they fit in… non-shooting situations.

Which is why he’s wearing this jacket, with a ill-fitting but  _clean_  polo, with his hair shoved back and glasses shoved on. Shea looks like a mean professor, and he has to suppress a grin right there in the sterile gray lobby. Maybe it’d help keep this interview short.

They turn out to be a panel of grey-haired, grey-faced men, arranged against Shea’s seat like a firing squad.

One of them gives his name as Kleinsman, explains that they’re recording this interview for liability reasons. Shea narrows his eyes, nods. He finds himself crossing his arms, and yeah, he’s feeling a little hostile. The panel don’t have too many questions, it turns out. Shea doesn’t know German, but he knows what  _Zürcher Polizei_  means on the file that Kleinsman’s rifling through.

Shea answers the questions. The answers are rote, even though a part of Shea still can’t quite sleep easy at nights, and he’s going on auto-pilot, telling the panel what Roman did to protect Shea. He almost relaxes, thinks that maybe this will be the easiest interview he’s had to do—

“Would you, Mr. Weber, recommend Mr. Josi as a bodyguard?”

Shea blinks, “He’s the only reason I’m alive.”

There’s papers being shuffled, and throats get cleared, and Kleinsman leans forward, “Mr. Weber, Mr. Josi tells me that he asked you to pretend to be his… lover. Is that what you think an effective bodyguard is?”

Shea jerks to his feet, his fists clenched, “Excuse me, I’m still alive, I’m still mad—” He breaks off, stares at the grey wall, chewing on his lip.

“Mr. Weber?”

Shea turns back to the panel and says, “You’re pissing and moaning about being  _professional_  when your own guy tried to kill  _me_?”

“An aberration.”

“An aberration,” he repeats, and this is fucking ridiculous, “It’s just an aberration, oh oops, killing people, oops, but Roman going above and beyond his duty is  _unprofessional_? Bodyguards are entrusted with, you know, guarding people.” Shea inhales, and walks out. What bullshit.

“This isn’t over!” one of the grey men protests, and Shea just grins at them as he walks past the heavy wood-panelled doors. Roman’s sitting out in the lobby, and raises his eyebrows when he sees Shea.

“That was short,” Roman says.

Shea laughs, “Yeah, pretty over people trying to tear you apart,” and leans closer, “‘Course, you could ditch this place with me, go back to my hotel, and screw my brains out.”

Roman shifts his eyes over to the very desolate front desk, strokes Shea’s polo, and grins, “Knowing what’s under this—” he tugs at the material, “makes me want to take it off all the more.” Roman looks up at Shea, and adds, “Hope your room has thick walls.”

“Find out,” Shea says, and Roman tweaks his nipple through his shirt, just enough to make Shea think about kissing him—

They walk out of the office building, and getting into Shea’s hotel room is laughably easy now that they don’t have to worry about random bullets or getting chased.

Roman closes the door, and leans against it, pulling at his tie. Shea licks his lips, wants to unbutton Roman’s shirt and shove his hand into Roman’s pants and—

Shea pushes his jacket off, drapes it… somewhere, and Roman smirks before he steps closer and pushes up Shea’s polo, up to his armpits. Shea licks his lips, “You could take it off, you know.”

Roman strokes his hand against Shea’s chest hair, and presses himself against Shea. “I could. I like seeing you like this, messed up,” and Shea grins, “You could mess me up more—”

Shea grinds against Roman, and Roman hums in appreciation before he curves his hand around the back of Shea’s neck and kisses him. It’s a easy kiss to slide into, Roman’s lips soft and his hands all over Shea, pressing over him. Shea presses back, unbuttoning Roman’s shirt and rubbing his fingers over the slide of Roman;s back. Roman sighs into Shea’s mouth, and presses his teeth against his lip so sweetly Shea almost shudders.

Roman pulls Shea’s shirt off, and leers at Shea with a  _deep_  appreciation, cupping his pec and kissing him again, harder and meaner, just how Shea likes it. Shea smiles, and pulls at Roman’s pants, groping at his dick and making Roman curse before he pushes Shea’s hand away.

“Fuck, I thought you wanted me to fuck you?” Roman says, yanking at Shea’s pants and sliding his hands under the plain white briefs to press his nails against Shea’s ass—

Shea bucks, “Fuck, yeah,” and shivers just as Roman slides his fingers along Shea’s cleft. Roman kisses his neck, scrapes his teeth down to Shea’s shoulder, and rubs his lips along the marks he’s trying to leave on him. Shea bites his lips, and Roman raises his head, smirking when he sees Shea’s teeth pressing against his lip.

He slides a thumb along them, and says, “What got me off in that bed and breakfast was seeing you try so hard to be quiet.”

Shea clutches at Roman, presses the fronts of their pants together, just enough to show Roman how much Shea  _wants_  this, “God, please, don’t tease me—”

“It’s fun,” Roman says, fucking unrepentant, but he strips quickly, his clothes falling on the floor. Shea shoves down his pants, happy to be out of them, and plops against the clean sheets. Roman looks at Shea,  _rude_  but very much  _appreciated_ , and Shea spreads his legs when Roman steps in between them. Roman looks down at Shea, and at his hardening dick along his belly.

Shea doesn’t bother suppressing the moan he gives when Roman strokes along the curve of his dick. That makes Roman’s gaze on him grow hot, and Shea grins as he yanks the lube from under his pillow. Shea’s rusty as hell, but he practices. A little more recently, sure, and Shea smirks when Roman just looks at the tube in his hand. Very observant, isn’t he?

Roman takes the lube from Shea’s hand, and slides along Shea’s front, pressing both of them into the sheets, “Please tell me you practiced.”

Shea looks down at Roman’s dick— and then up at those lovely eyes— and just gives Roman a filthy grin, “I do know how to entertain myself.”

Roman snorts, and makes Shea roll over on his front with a firm hand to the small of his back. Shea goes easily, and watching Roman kneel on the bed is a pleasure. Roman’s so sure in his body, easy in his movements, and Shea just can’t stop grinning at Roman. Roman licks his lips, and strokes down Shea’s back, kissing his shoulder before he slides down, and—

Shea blushes, buries his head against the rucked-up top sheet as Roman lifts his hips up and licks at Shea’s asshole, oh god. He forgot how wet getting rimmed was, how if he just strained his ears he could hear muffled breaths in between licks, and yeah, Shea’s not going to bite his bicep just to keep from making noise this time. No, not when it’s this good, when he could make Roman want more—

Roman grips at Shea’s thigh, holds his ass open with the other hand as he rubs his tongue, just fucks in a little before he sucks carefully at the skin around it. Shea moans, and that makes Roman just do it more, press his blunt nails against Shea’s ass just to get it perfect  _again_. Shea could rock against Roman’s mouth, could beg, plead, but god, he just wants to get fucked and not rimmed until he comes.

Shea squeezes at his dick, hard enough to make him wince, just because he wants to pay attention to _this_. Roman kisses Shea’s shoulder, rocks his dick against Shea’s cleft, says, “God, you’re so hot like this,” and Shea grinds back against Roman, arches his back just a little.

“Good,” Shea growls, and Roman clutches at Shea’s hips, a hasty  _yes, that’s good_ , before he presses a glob of lube in against Shea’s asshole. Shea doesn’t bother pretending he’s not into it, rocking against Roman’s fingers, and feels his dick twitch out precome when Roman gasps.

Shea fucks himself a few times against Roman’s fingers, slow, so slow he can feel himself  _burn_. Roman presses his fingers in, kisses the back of Shea’s neck, “You’re making it hard for me to wait.”

Shea twists just enough to see the smooth edge of Roman’s face, and smirks, “ _Don’t_  wait.”

Roman makes a strangled noise at that, and Shea hisses through his teeth when Roman hooks a finger along his rim, just a tease, and fucking rubs his dickhead along it—

It’s so good, and Shea wished he could see what Roman looks like, fucking into his ass with slow thrusts, pressing in slowly. Shea sighs, and Roman strokes up Shea’s belly, presses against the trail of hair there, “You good?”

Shea wriggles, “ _Very_  good,” and clenches around Roman, “Fuck me.”

Roman does. Hard, with his hips pressing against Shea’s ass, making small moans with every stroke, murmuring strings of words in German, and Shea’s sweating, arching up and pushing Roman for more. Roman presses gentle fingers against Shea’s hair, pushing his head down, and oh, yeah, the shift’s enough for Roman to rock easily against his prostate. Shea’s sticky, liquid, and god, he forgot how open getting fucked felt—

Shea reaches down, trying to stroke himself off, and Roman clutches at Shea’s wrist, says, “Please?” thrusts in, manages, “I want to last a little longer—”

He really wishes he could see Roman’s face now, and moans when Roman picks up the pace, fucking him faster—

Shea slides hard on his knees, and Roman curses, “Fuck, god—” It’s all Shea can do to lift up his hips, just for this sweet angle, Roman thrusting into him so hard he sets his teeth against how good it feels, hot and heavy.

Roman presses his hand against Shea’s belly, and god, the pressure is so good, bursting along his spine before he comes with a low moan, rocking hard against Roman’s dick as he tries to chase the sensation—

Shea falls on his elbows, pressing his spent dick against the small pool of come on the bed. Roman only lasts for a couple more hard thrusts before he comes, clutching at Shea’s wrists and grinding his spent dick inside him.

They spend a few minutes just being a messy heap, and Shea shifts carefully, licking his lips when he feels that  _twinge_. It shouldn’t make him wish he could go again, but. He grins. He’s only human.

Shea strokes Roman’s hair, and Roman  _hmms_  before he opens his eyes. Shea asks, “Chemistry?”

Roman presses him against the sheets, just avoiding hitting the wet spot, and kisses him, sucking at his lip before he says, “More than that, jesus. That— was really,” Roman pauses. “You, erhm, beg wonderfully.”

Shea slides his hand over Roman’s hand, and rubs his thumb against Roman’s fingers, almost obscene considering what exactly Roman did to him with them. “I wish I didn’t have to go back.”

Roman sighs, “I have vacation. I should take it.” He looks at Shea, “Maybe I should take it with you. This time you provide  _coverage_.”

Shea grins, “Not your rule number one, is it?”

“You’d be surprised,” Roman says.

They smile goofily up at the ceiling.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr!](http://www.hastybooks.tumblr.com)


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